Carefully, so as not to disturb the sleeping wolf, Traven moved his torso to the left and found another sight, equally unusual. One of the Giants, too tall to stand erect in the room, was hunched over, while a tiny Faery, no larger than Traven’s hand, flew up and around the Giant’s face. It took a moment for Traven to focus, but with difficulty, the Hero followed their conversation.
The Faery’s voice squeaked, “I gave no permission!”
“The prophecies —” The Giant’s voice was rich and full, resonating off the cavern walls.
The Faery darted into the Giant’s face, her dress and skin turning a darker shade of red. “I will tell you when the prophecies are fulfilled.”
Instead of getting angry, the Giant sighed, accidentally blowing the Faery head over heels. Before the Giant could apologize, the Faery corrected her flight and buzzed back, her dress now a blazing crimson.
“You had no right to violate the Fold’s sanctity.”
“Isn’t this exactly why the Folds were created?” The Giant’s voice was calm and soothing, but the Faery’s wings beat furiously.
Her finger now pointed right at his nose. “This is a sanctuary for the innocent — and that is no innocent!”
The Faery punctuated her words with a finger in Traven’s direction. The Hero might have taken offense if the whole scene were not so bizarre.
A tingle went up his spine, bringing Traven’s attention back to his legs. Looking down, the Hero found the wolf awake, its gray eyes wide open, staring at Traven. The Hero’s breath caught in his throat, making a strangled sound. Within the blink of an eye, the Faery sped across the room and hovered above the wolf.
“And get this dog off this... this cretin!” Her dress flowered orange, then yellow.
“See, even the Wolves know his potential,” the Giant stated.
“Please. This wolf takes to anything with two legs, sometimes with those who have six. He is no judge.”
“Pale, come,” the Giant spoke kindly, but the wolf hesitated.
“I will brook no insolence from any of you!” The Faery’s skin was now a light blue and her dress the color of ice covering a deep lake.
“Come, boy.”
The wolf lazily rose to his feet, stretching first his forelimbs, then his rear legs. Traven held his breath as the wolf backed away a few feet, but then with the speed of an arctic hair, the wolf lunged forward, giving Traven the gentlest lick on the cheek.
The Hero might have lost his bladder had it not been for the hold the canine’s eyes had on him. An image hit the Hero like a slap on the face.
For a moment, Traven’s brain could not assimilate the picture in his mind. Rapidly, he realized it was his own face as the wolf had just seen it. As quickly as the image had flooded his mind, it was gone. Shaken, Traven simply sat there mute. His mouth moved. The Hero could feel his lips trying to shape words, but no sound came out.
“This is what you bring me, speaking of The Hope?”
Before the Giant could respond, Traven found his voice.
“Am I a prisoner?”
The Faery flared a wicked blue that flowed back and forth into black.
“That would imply we had some sort of use for you. What would we want with you?”
Traven’s voice cracked, “To eat.”
The Faery’s laughter sliced through the air. It was if hundreds of tiny bells chimed in unison, both beautiful and awful to bear. “I told you, Grave. He is someone’s village idiot. Thrown out of town before he could waste any more of winter’s rations.”
Traven could feel his cheeks flush red. The Hero tried to keep his words simple and direct so as not to embarrass himself further. “Then why have you brought me here?”
The tinkling of chimes filled the room again as the Faery’s dress lightened in tone with greens and yellows dappled across the berry blue. “Ask Grave,” the Faery said as she flew up and out of the room.
The Giant’s shoulders slumped even further as he moved to follow her. His huge head turned back, his red beard dragging on the ground. “Do not fear, Hero.” The Giant took another step, but the wolf whined and nudged him with his nose. “All right, Pale, stay with...”
The Giant’s eyes, as black as the deepest obsidian, studied the Hero.
“My name is Traven.”
Nodding, the Giant spoke to the wolf. “Stay with Traven, watch over him.”
For a man so large, the Giant was quick and agile, far down the hall before Traven found his voice again.
“Would that be to protect me or guard me?” Traven asked the deserted hallway. But what did it really matter? Neither answer would give him much peace.
Traven held his breath while the wolf circled three times then lay down by his hip. It was one thing for the Giant to say that the Hero should have no fear. It was quite another to actually be fearless.
The Hero waited a moment, then carefully began moving his toes. Pain shot up his leg. The tiniest pricks began needling his feet, then, in wave after wave, chased up and down his leg. Perhaps it would have been best if he had left his limbs sleeping.
Cautious not to disturb the slumbering wolf, Traven gently massaged his aching legs. While his muscles were getting reacquainted with blood flow, Traven examined his surroundings.
The blanket beneath him was course and stiff, most likely horsehair, but beneath it was a soft cushion of dried moss. The smell of cider still drifted in and out of the room, bringing hunger pangs to the forefront of his complaint list.
Bending his knees, Traven prepared to rise but found the wolf staring straight at him. Traven prayed the canine was not as hungry as he was. A rumbling came from deep in the wolf’s throat. Pictures of blood and flesh ripped asunder flashed across Traven’s mind. Instinctually, the Hero’s hand went for his sword, but it was missing.
Damn, Traven thought, he had lost his weapon out on the drifts.
Despite the graphic images, the wolf stood perfectly still, with his ear slightly cocked, not exactly the position Traven imagined a wolf would take before attacking. The wolf seemed to be asking the Hero a question, but it was one that Traven could not quite understand.
Suddenly, the Hero’s stomach grumbled so loudly that he was certain the folks back at Last Hitch heard it. The wolf wagged its tail, barked softly, and turned on his heel, heading straight for a dark corner.
Traven let himself breathe out — that had been too close. While the wolf was busy, Traven tried to get his legs under him. As soon as the Hero would rise up onto one knee, the other leg would buckle under him.
On the second attempt, Traven came down hard. Pain shot up his spine. If the Hero hoped to take advantage of the wolf’s distraction, he needed his body to cooperate. Working up for another try, Traven noticed out of the corner of his eye the wolf bounding back. The Hero tried to get out of the way, but the wolf ran into him full bore, sprawling both of them across the moss-covered floor.
Scrambling to get up, Traven tripped over something and found himself flat on his arse, yet again. The wolf was far more agile and bounced back up, dragging an object over to Traven. As fast as he could, Traven pushed himself backward until the wolf unceremoniously dropped the slab into his lap. The object was a leg, a really big one. Without further ado, the wolf pulled a piece of fur off and began greedily eating the tender flesh.
At the very least, it was not a human leg.
The wolf caught Traven’s eye and images of meat and the feeling of a filling belly swarmed the Hero’s mind. Traven broke the contact and tried to gently relieve himself of the wolf’s “gift,” but for every inch he scooted the slab away, the wolf nosed it back. A strong picture flooded Traven’s mind of the two of them eating together. When Traven did not act on his invitation, the wolf chewed off a chunk of meat and dropped it in Traven’s hand.
How am I going to get out of this one? Traven wondered as the wolf nudged his hand closer to the Hero’s mouth. Traven’s own mother had not been so persistent about making sure he ate. Slowly, th
e Hero moved the dirt-covered flesh to his mouth. The Hero had eaten meat raw before, but somehow having it covered in wolf saliva made it even more unappetizing.
Traven’s teeth at first refused to bite down, but his stomach had other plans. After the first gritty bite, Traven gulped down the rest of the chunk. Satisfied with Traven’s progress, the wolf lay down and began digging into the leg himself.
Using his fingers, Traven tore at the meat and bolted down piece after piece, but still the Hero was ravished. Feeling down in his boot, Traven found his paring knife and began cutting larger and larger pieces. The wolf sent such intense thoughts that Traven could smell the delicate bouquet that distinguished between tender meat and gristle. It appeared that two day-old caribou was a wolf delicacy.
At least the Hero hoped that it was caribou. Traven nearly choked on his chunk of flesh. What if it was horse? Was the Hero eating Lauger? Before he could panic overly, an image of Lauger, safely in a stable, flooded Traven’s mind. A dozen Faeries catered to the horse’s every whim. They flew about his mane and tail, braiding them with laughter and delight. Traven had to chuckle. Lauger had never had it so good.
Traven took one last bite. His stomach could not take another ounce, but thirst gnawed at him. The smell of sweet cider wafted through the air, begging him to come try a sip. The wolf leapt up and trotted towards the smell. Gingerly, Traven gingerly rose. Looking over his shoulder, the wolf sent another invitation, this time to share a drink.
Slowly, Traven stretched his legs and took one step at a time across the cavern. He followed the wolf’s white tail around the corner and drew to a halt. Within the kettle a spoon stirred on its own. No hand twirled it or even gave it a nudge. Traven took an unconscious step backward as the ladle rose from the surface and poured back in its contents, then stirring the mixture.
Somehow the significance of the place had eluded Traven.
Until now.
Irrefutable proof stood before him — the Hero was standing in a Fold.
The realization brought a chill to the warm air.
He, Traven Angling, had found a Fold.
No one in written history had visited a Fold and lived to tell about it. Silently, the Hero watched the spoon stir. With each turn of the ladle, the aroma of apples and nutmeg filled the air. It was one thing to meet a White Wolf. After all, they just looked like oversized wolves with white hair. The Giants could have been explained away as really large mountain man. And the Faery… well, the Faery was just rude.
No, it was this ladle, casually stirring cider that caused his brain to throb violently. Either that, or his thirst had gotten the better of him.
Tentatively, Traven moved forward and lightly grasped the handle of the spoon. Immediately, the utensil stopped its motion and rested peacefully in his hand. With a bit more courage, Traven grabbed one of the cups hanging from the wall and poured himself a splash of cider. Ever so carefully, the Hero replaced the ladle. Without pause, the spoon began stirring again.
Putting the cup to his lips, Traven enjoyed a sniff of the rich smell that snaked up his nose. The taste was as good as he could have imagined. Not even Granny had made cider this rich and full. Pouring another cup, the Hero turned to find the wolf staring at him.
Traven did not need to wait for the wolf’s mental sending. It was quite plain that the wolf found the Hero wanting in manners. Grabbing another cup from its hook, Traven poured the wolf some cider and gently placed it on the floor. A sending of thanks, deeper than any appreciation the Hero had ever gotten from a human, followed as the wolf lapped the hot cider. Perhaps this beast was not such a bad companion after all.
Traven slid down the rough-hewn wall and sat on the cool, stone floor. It was nice to rest with his belly full and throat drenched in savory liquid. His horse was tended to, and with the White Wolf, his new-found friend, it did not look like he needed to worry about death anytime soon. Traven leaned his head back and breathed in the warm air. It had been what seemed like years since he had been able to take a deep breath without the air chastising his lungs. The winters were growing longer and nastier with each cycle of the sun.
Something in the back of Traven’s mind kept nagging him, though, not allowing him to slip into a restful slumber. His training upon the Mount increasingly demanded his attention.
Certainly, the Wolf and the Giant seemed to have his best interests at heart, but could he believe appearances? Even if he could trust his instincts, the Hero most definitely could not trust the Faery. Her manner was filled with disdain and something akin to loathing in her eyes. Traven had seen the look before, from a dozen desperate towns, and each time, it had ended poorly for him.
If the Faery was to emerge victorious in her argument with the Giant, it might be best if the Hero had an escape route etched in his mind. Slowly, Traven roused himself and rose to his feet. Cautiously at first, then with more strength, Traven sent a thought to the wolf — one of exploration and discovery. The wolf opened a lazy brown eye and delivered a groggy decline.
Why should they rise now? the wolf asked. Meat was on their bellies and warm cider calmed their brain. They could sniff out the Fold later.
Traven hesitated for a moment. He could leave the wolf behind and wander alone, but the Hero was certain that the wolf was familiar with the cave’s layout. Traven tried again, but the wolf simply responded with a gentle, Later.
Surveying the sprawled-out wolf, Traven wondered how far he could press his request. The Hero was not used to asking for help. He had been raised on a farm and relied on his own muscles since he was a child. Even when other Heroes had ridden out from Mount Shrine in small bands, Traven had struck out alone. He wasn’t even sure how to frame his appeal.
Straightening to his full height, Traven thought a single word. He cast the request forth with the same sincerity that the wolf had thanked him.
“Please,” Traven heard himself say aloud as he sent the thought.
The wolf opened both eyes and stared, then blinked twice. Traven waited for the response, but none was forthcoming. Had he gone too far? Angered the wolf? Finally, the wolf slowly rose and padded alongside the Hero. A sending as soft as a spring breeze caressed Traven’s mind.
There is no anger between pack-mates.
Stunned by the intimacy of the thought, Traven followed the wolf down a narrow pathway. Pack-mates? Traven barely called another man friend, let alone a White Wolf, but the Hero’s anxiety was tempered with relief. His chances were greatly enhanced if the wolf thought of him kindly, but what would the wolf want in return?
Traven had learned not to like surprises.
*****
CHAPTER 9
Madame Hesper sank deeper into her chair as if the uttering of her own death sentence had robbed the old woman of the very energy to live. Crystalia waited a moment to be sure the medium still breathed. There was so much Crystalia still needed answered.
“Madame Hesper?” she asked gently.
The old woman stirred and, with effort, opened her eyes. “Do not worry, child. It was not your fault.”
“What wasn’t my fault? What happened? I don’t understand.”
“I know, I know.” The Madame seemed to fade, but spoke again with her next breath. “There is much you must know. Much that I must teach you before... before it is too late. But not tonight. Tonight I must rest.”
Crystalia tried to temper her tone so as not to startle Madame Hesper, but it looked like this might be the only night they had.
“Please… reveal enough to stop my mind from spinning.”
It was an effort, but the medium leaned forward. “Look at your hand.”
Crystalia did as commanded and stared at her right palm, but the strange symbols were in the same orientation as before.
“No, your left hand.”
Crystalia was startled. Pink lines now marred her left palm. Instead of unrecognizable figures, the markings were her hand’s own creases, only different. Her lifeline stretched far out from her nor
mal crease, almost wrapping itself around her wrist. The love line made a straight arrow to her ring finger, and many of the other wrinkles wandered from their original paths.
“What... what does this mean?”
The Madame rubbed at her own palm and spat into it, but nothing happened. “Dear, I don’t have the power any more. Could you, please?”
At first, Crystalia did not understand the request. Then it hit her.
The medium wanted Crystalia to spit into Madame Hesper’s palm. She took the old woman’s hand in her own but could not bring herself to be so disrespectful. Licking her own finger, Crystalia coated Madame Hesper’s palm with her own saliva, then rubbed hard.
To her amazement, pink and deep red lines suddenly etched the medium’s hand. What stood out the most was that her lifeline was extremely truncated — there was but a nubbins left.
“Do not ask me how or why, but the Fates chose to transfer their affections from me to you. You and Traven must reunite. It is the only way to test the prophecy.”
“But—”
“Please, child, let me finish. I don’t have much breath left this eve. You will depart soon, leaving everything you hold dear. Do you understand?”
Staring with her mouth open, Crystalia could not comprehend what had happened. How could all of this have transpired? She had only wanted a tidbit of news about a stranger. Now she was to embark on a Hero’s journey.
It had all seemed so exciting when the cards were read, but now the reality weighed heavily upon her. She had to leave, truly leave, Last Hitch? Crystalia had never been more than a day’s ride outside the city gates.
Remembering Traven’s kind eyes and the feel of his warm lips on her palm, the girl had known it all along that Traven was her beloved. All the bedtime stories spoke of your knight coming to sweep you off your feet. In her case, it appeared that Crystalia would have to go and hunt hers down.
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